


Reclamation

by TornThorn



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Poetry, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:55:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TornThorn/pseuds/TornThorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The curse remains. Still, no one listens. So she sings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reclamation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_ragnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/gifts).



There are still stories of Apollo. Beautiful, golden. Lyre and bow. Brother. God.  
There are still stories of me. Spurning a deity, cursed to speak only what must be and for no one to believe the words. My family dying, my city burning, my world destroyed. Every warning ignored, none able to heed. The gods then were jealous and cruel.  
They still are, though no one believes in them either.  
And I remember. Each time I am born again, each time the curse manifests and I find myself crying out like an oracle to an ignorant, deaf world, I remember.

This time- This time, I fight back.

I use his gift against him. He would give me truth that no one would believe? I would use his talent and sing it out. The world would hear the prophecies, they would hear of tomorrow through the medium he prized so highly - music.  
I saw the cracks in the world, I saw the fires burn and the ash settle, like a veil that choked and freed, like the night’s first cigarette. I tuned election results, I sang marriage and war, I let the notes slip free of oncoming atrocities, of the rare piece of peace, hope glimmering faintly from the speakers to be crushed underfoot by the drunken listeners.  
They heard, they loved, they raved. They shared and tweeted, they exclaimed over tickets, they pulled the lyrics apart and wondered at the art. The aesthetic. And still they would not believe.

Except them. Yes, the gods live here, among you. Shadows of who, what, they were. They listen and know the truth. They listen and hear nothing of themselves. To this world, they are dead. The pantheon is Oprah and Ellen, the 24-hour news cycle, the newest Marvel or Disney movie, Wikipedia. The worshippers of him and his kind, offering incense and prayers, are few, quiet, judged. The internet rules, its worshippers are legion. Who needs old gods? Past their prime, forgotten or remade or reviled. I speak of them no more.

And so we share my curse equally - me, trying to save the world and eternally unable to change a thing. -them, a faded painting on a cave wall, unable to effect the world they once thought they created. -him, a caricature of all he was, not a word of him from the girl he cursed through millennia.

I step onstage, feel the burn of the spot light, smell stale beer and sweat and old smoke, hear the murmuring crowd. I lean in to the microphone, open my lips. The only one worshipped here is me.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a tumblr post by achillics, which I saw when it was reposted by lady_ragnell.


End file.
